Thanksgiving when I was little

When I was little, my parents had a grand mahogany table and high sideboard. They were beautiful. My mother kept her great-grandmother's Haviland soup tureen out on top of the sideboard. It was huge.

When I was about 10 or 12, they got rid of the mahogany and got this terrible pecan modernistic crap with artificial caning in the chairs. I always missed the old, darker furniture. It was "real."

When I was little, Mother used real linens for Thanksgiving, and her crystal glasses. She made the pink parfait recipe she learned from her best friend, Rose.

When I was little, Thanksgiving always smelled the same. Mother worked by herself for days and got everything ready without a word of complaint. She never said she was tired. She rarely asked us to help.

We had turkey and dressing and rice and gravy and LeSeur peas with canned mushrooms in them. We had roasted pecans and pickled beets and pickled vegetables from the grocery. We had sweet potatoes with fat brown marshmallows on top. We had black olives and pimento-stuffed green olives. We had celery with pimento cheese or cream cheese in it. We had lots of desserts, but I liked the pink parfait best. She made it with strawberry jello, canned crushed pineapple, and vanilla ice cream. She blended it all up with her mixer and served it in her beautiful crystal glasses.

Most dads in the 60's didn't help, I guess, and ours was no different. Mother shopped, polished the silver, got out the china and crystal, prepared the linens, chopped, cooked, and served the food, and did all the cleaning. With a smile. For the following week, she creatively recycled the leftovers.

Daddy carved the turkey, watched TV, and took a nap. When I was little, it was just the way things were, but looking back, she really had a raw deal there.

I remember swiping the black olives out of the cup before dinner. I remember the lovely smell of pecans roasting. I remember the blessing and holding hands around the table. And most of all, I remember Mama's smile.

When Mom died, my sister and I opened card after card from the sack or two of mail that arrived. One well-meaning friend had written, "When she smiled, she suddenly became beautiful." Sister and I laughed and laughed at the left-handed compliment, but he was right: when she smiled, she suddenly became beautiful.